Poetry: Selections from Bradford Middleton

ALL THE DRUGS AND ALL THE GUNS AIN’T GOING TO SAVE YOU NOW!

 

“It’s all a hoax” some ginger crackhead told 

Me from his un-masked mouth, emphasising

The ‘ax’ to leave droll sliding down the

Plastic defence for those of us on the check-outs

And I just knew; I had to stand back and bite

My tongue as the week before my Dad had 

Passed of something this conspiracy addled 

Nut was convinced didn’t even exist and 

I got to say it got me thinking.

 

It got me thinking, here’s another from, just

About, my generation, a generation now in

Our late 40s, early 50s, convincing himself

That nothing has changed and life can still

Best be lived behind a wall of drunken fun,

Of complete intoxication no matter how many

Die because to their mind life just ain’t worth

Living without their usual bad habits and that

Sounds a little bit like mine but yet everywhere

I go and I, at least, try and do the decent thing;

Mask up, sanitize hands as I know this virus

Don’t seem to care about anything except

Whether you’re poor.

 

But some will think they can just fight it,

“I served two years in Afghanistan” some

Cunt announced whilst I was re-acquanting

Myself with old habits just the other day

As if shooting unarmed innocent kids is like

Fighting a virus wanting to suck every ounce

Of life from you.

 

 

LOVE IS A MISERY TO SOME

 

There were times in my youth when I

Would fall in love at the drop of a beat,

Before any clue to what she was really

Like, but I guess being young & hormonal

Had me turned on for all kinds of fun;

Mad, immoral but fun 

BUT then one night I met one & this 

Time the love felt real even if we were

High, higher than I’d ever been as she’d

Sparked the madness that still rules

Today, and it felt good until she left

For a dealer of something that I was

Certain meant death.  Then came 

Another & she got me good but then

She moved on & I sat bored, frustrated

At the state of my so-called love life, until

One last one came along, broke my heart

& left me wanting nothing more to do

With the whole god-damn charade cos

There’s only one way it’ll ever end &

It spells nothing but M-I-S-E-R-Y!

 

 

BEWILDERING HYPOCRISY

 

It was deep into the heart of

Just another Saturday night when

I walked in an old bar i used to

Frequent.  I recognised both

The bar-staff but neither the

People i was with knew anyone

And our smoking hadn’t helped

With any of our memories.  A

Large one had been smoked

As we walked up the street

Towards its entrance.

 

‘Come on,’ i implore to my two

Drinking companions, one

Non-participant, ‘we’ll go in

Here...’

 

As i walk to the bar, desperate

For a beer and something

A hell of a lot stronger, i see

Flo, a girl from the bar up

The road, i know and she

Smiles and sorts me out with

A rare cheap drink.

 

‘I’m here every Saturday

Night’ she tells me as I see

A new place to go.  But

Then it happens, the damn

Impossible.  The dreadlocked

Performance poet who also

Works there getting his

Knickers in a twist just cos

Someone is holding.  All

This from a man who took

His stage name from what

Exactly it is we’d just been

Smoking.

 

A couple of days later i see

Some faces i know who

Drink in that bar.

‘He don’t like people getting

Drunk,’ they tell me and

No food unless its from the

Expensive restaurant over

The road and all i can think

Is what a damn mess.

 

 

OBSESSING OVER DEATH

 

I've been ill and I been

Away, away fearing death

from the confines of my 

glorious glorious bed with

occasional visits to see my

god-damn dentist and my

paranoid doctor who've

told me, just like so many

times before.

 

You can't carry on like this

Give this up & give that up 

& you'll live a little bit longer

but when I look at them I 

always just think, why should

I damn well bother, the point

of living, prolonging this nightmare 

any longer than I really need

to.

 

But this time I survived more

for my mum and my burgeoning

literary reputation as a hard-man

in a town where even I'll

cross the road to avoid some as they

stalk their madness through these

streets just like Iggy searching

for his death-obsessed fix but

yet he lives on & I do too.

 

 

WRITING IS A GAMBLE

 

This writing life is a gamble

If you play it right, play it mean

With everyone, including yourself,

To just get the words down.  They’ll

Often be misunderstood which can cause

Ructions and fall-outs but, if they’re 

Cool they’ll come back around again

Once they realise it weren’t about them,

But then there’s all the hours you

Need to spend working on the words

Missing out on seeing friends all in a bid

To stay sane getting the word out there.

 

If you play the writing game right it 

Can lead to all manner of delights but

Of course there will always be the demons

Who come biting at you too but in the

Long run if you’re doing it right it’ll

Work out as at least come deaths end

You won’t have completely lost your 

Mind and have something to show for

A life that was always meant to be lost

With nothing to remember it by.

 

So i’ll keep on writing, the words hopefully

They’ll keep on coming and maybe in 20, who knows

30 years hence they’ll be something worth

Remembering of this life beyond lost friends

Lost to the word

Lost to this life as the poems

Pile high, the stories keep

Coming and at some point

That goddamn second novel.

Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton on England’s south coast. Recent poems have featured in The Good Press’ The Paper, Back Room Poetry ‘Rebel’ anthology, Horror Sleaze Trash, Dreich, Mad Swirl and, of course, right here at A Thin Slice of Anxiety. His most recent chapbook ‘The Whiskey Stings Good Tonight’ was published March ‘23 by the mighty fine Alien Buddha Press.